


Every day the same nightmare

by Rainbowfootsteps



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Empire England (Hetalia), Historical Hetalia, M/M, england has a bit of a drinking problem, heartbroken england
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-22 06:51:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6069442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbowfootsteps/pseuds/Rainbowfootsteps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is having nightmares. Memories from his past, so vivid and painful that they creep into his daily life. Perhaps it's easier to just not sleep at all...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rain

Arthur was tired. God, was he tired. Dark undereye carved into his face, back hunched, lips chapped. Weeks of economic turmoil had plagued him and his body was paying the price with aching limbs and countless fevers. He had a splitting hangover and was still a little drunk. He’d remembered the hard way that drowning your worries in gin wasn’t a good idea before world meetings. All he wanted to do was curl up in bed and forget the world around him. Instead, he sat in his sticky faux leather chair and pretended to listen to the latest bullshit from Alfred.

‘...Which would mean a strengthening of the trading bonds between the United States and Europe! Not to mention how it would strengthen the economic status of, like, everyone. Or - and this is my favourite option - we could create a trading partnership agreement…’ Arthur zoned out again. All these technical words thrown around as if they meant anything. Trading. Economics. Partnerships. His eyes closed and he leaned his head back. None of it concerned them anyway. Regardless of what they thought, regardless of how hard they begged and pleaded, their leaders would make the final decision and wouldn’t care what the countries thought. They were pointless. Useless, unwanted beings that were conveniently shoved out of the way of real politics and into daycare conveniently named ‘world meetings’.

‘Angleterre, are you alright?’ Francis’s voice made Arthur’s eyes open again. He glared at the Frenchman.

‘Of course I am, wanker.' He wasn’t. But then, when was he?

‘Arthur…’ Francis only used his proper name when he was concerned. What did Francis care?

‘What?’ Arthur snapped back, louder than he’d intended. Francis stared at him, looking slightly wounded, his lips pursed together in a look of puzzled worry.

‘Arthur, bro, cool it. I haven’t finished my powerpoint presentation yet!’ Alfred called from the front. Arthur glowered at him and the tacky blue screen behind him.

‘Anyway…’ Alfred continued.

‘Onto the next news! Today’s the independence day of South Africa! Congratulations, dude. Unfortunately he couldn’t be here because of the celebrations.’ Alfred said with a grin. Independence day. Arthur’s scowl increased. Independence from him. Independence from the great empire he had once been. Abruptly he stood up. His chair rolled away from him.

‘Arthur…’ Francis’ voice murmured. Arthur ignored him. He stared, fists clenched, at the faces of the countries in the room. Egypt. Hong kong. America. Was there nobody in this stupid, claustrophobic building that hadn’t betrayed and abandoned him, and broken his heart? He felt a tear prick his eye. Without a word he stormed out of the room.

 

The glare of English street lights made Arthur’s shadow long and dark. Every breath came out as a puff of white. He listened to the cars roaring past, tyres cutting through puddles and making huge plumes of water spray everywhere. Tall, uniform buildings pressed in on him, suffocating him. He didn’t need to be in the goddamn meeting. They could harp on about fake issues without him.

‘Arthur.’ Francis’ voice was insistent, anxious. Arthur tried to ignore the hurried footsteps behind him.

‘Mon chéri, come back. Come back inside and tell me what’s wrong. And if you won’t, at least let me drive you home. It’s far too cold for you to walk.’ Francis asked. Arthur felt hollow anger grow inside him.

‘I’m not your chéri, or your chou-fleur, or your anything. Don’t act like you care about me.’ Arthur said bitterly. Francis’ face contorted into pained anxiety.

‘You know I love you.’ He said softly. He reached out to touch Arthur’s cheek but Arthur turned away and walked faster.

‘You’re drunk, aren’t you. I can’t let you walk home like this.’ Francis’ tone was more insistent.

‘I’m not bloody drunk!’ Arthur snarled. He stopped walking and turned to face Francis.

‘You really want to know what’s wrong? Alright then. I’m tired of everyone leaving me. Throwing me out of their lives, refusing to look me in the eye. Some of them even pity me. They think i’m the scraps left of a great empire, useless and broken. Are you happy now?’ Arthur was yelling by the end. Francis didn’t reply. His face was washed yellow in the street light, shocked and pitying. God, not him too. Arthur whirled around and walked away, ignoring Francis’ pleas.

 

* * *

 

 

Home was a bitter comfort. He fumbled with his key, fingers too cold and stiff to unlock it. Finally he got the key in and pushed the door open. His apartment was barely warmer than outside. He flicked on a light and walked into the kitchen. His hand rested on the kettle but he couldn’t find the strength to pick it up. He needed something a lot stronger than tea. His hand hovered in front of the liquor cabinet.

Francis would tell him not to. He’d make him a cup of tea and sit him down in front of the television. Another gentle clean up of another emotional explosion.

With a spiteful burst of energy Arthur slammed the cabinet door open and pulled out the bottle closest. He didn’t even read what it was, just poured the murky liquid into a glass and drank. It burned his throat and made him feel warm inside.

'I don’t need them.' He whispered. He lay his head on the table and traced his finger over the top of the glass again and again.

'I’m a bloody country, I don’t need anyone.' He murmured as he poured another glass. And another. Slowly the world went fuzzy. Alone, as rain lashed down against the windows of his silent apartment, Arthur slowly fell asleep.


	2. Revolution

Arthur was in a tent. A cold, damp, beige coloured little room with a table in the middle. Little figurines of cannons and horses were dotted around on it. He sat at the head of the table in a rickety wooden chair. The sound of yelled orders and feet squelching through mud drifted through the thin walls.

He sighed deeply and picked at a stray thread on the red coat of his uniform. The day was not going well, to say the least. The American forces were hitting them hard, pushing their defences back one at a time. If they lost this battle, well, he lost the war. And if he lost the war, he lost Alfred.

At the thought of him Arthur was filled with bittersweet emotions. He’d found him and raised him as a little brother, provided him with everything he could ever need - the taxes he’d asked for were fair considering how much he’d done for him. And yet he rebelled to fight for his freedom, helped by that bloody frenchman. Arthur had to win. Then Alfred would realise that he belonged by Arthur’s side, not alone to fend for himself.

Boom! The crash of a cannon made Arthur start. Was the fighting that close already? He stood up and picked up his musket, leaned against the side of the tent. Its bayonet was dented from all the soldiers it had slain. Arthur cast the thought out of his mind. It was best not to dwell on death- he’d learned that a long time ago. 

‘Lieutenant General.’ Arthur saluted, trying not to look exhausted as his hat went limp in the rain. Charles Cornwallis was fat, old, and not a man Arthur particularly liked. He eyed Arthur, scrutinising his wiry limbs and muddy boots. Those jaded green eyes, so much older than the rest of the supposed country, made Lieutenant General Cornwallis very wary of Arthur and he didn’t trust him in the least. This sentiment went both ways.

‘We’re having a rough time of it.’ Cornwallis commented, shaking rain out of his receding grey hair.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The Americans are approaching rather frighteningly fast.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You’re going to put a stop to that.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good man.’ Cornwallis said without any real conviction. They both looked out at the battlefield. A hundred metres away were the batteries, lines of cannons and soldiers looking worn and grey. There was a trench of dead bodies not far away. Thank god they were upwind.

‘There’s nothing for it, lad. We’ll wait for another charge from the Americans, see how many of them we can finish off, then I’d say it’s over.’ Cornwallis said with a sigh.

‘...Yes, sir.’

‘Go check on the troops, there’s a good lad.’ Cornwallis said absentmindedly, waving Arthur away with a pudgy hand.

‘Yes, sir.’ Arthur replied with as much venom as he could. He slung his musket over his shoulder and headed for the trenches.

There was no other way to describe it - the trenches were truly horrific. The stench of blood and death was everywhere and made him want to vomit. Rats scuttled back and forth as soldiers reloaded cannons and hid behind flimsy defences. One man’s face was barely visible under grime and blood, yet he dutifully stayed by his cannon.

One soldier took a shot at the American cannons, then leaned on the edge of the trench.

‘When I told my missus I was goin’ to war, I didn’t think it would be like this!’ He remarked with a grin. A ripple of laughter spread through the other soldiers as they heartily agreed.

‘Told mine it’d be over in a month!’

‘I got me son toy soldiers for his birthday - not doin’ that again.’ Arthur smiled but inside he felt cold. These men all had families to go home to. And yet they were so vulnerable, so fragile. He hoped they wouldn’t die.

The thought had barely crossed his mind when a cannon fired and a cannonball flew through the air dangerously close to him. He peeked over the defence and the colour drained from his face. The Americans were charging.

‘Attack!’ Cornwallis roared. Arthur scrambled through the mud to the closest cannon. Shit, nothing to light it with. He pushed his musket off his shoulder and gripped it tightly. For Great Britain. For Alfred. He yelled as he jumped over the cannon, racing through the other red coated soldiers charging at the American forces. A cannonball hit the man who gave his son toy soldiers. Arthur attacked with even more frenzied recklessness, stabbing and slicing again and again in a red haze. After an eternity in the heat of battle, Arthur found himself without an opponent. Then he saw him.

 

‘Alfred…’

* * *

Alfred turned to look at him. The battle around them faded away. It was just them and the suffocating silence between them. Alfred’s blue, childish eyes were shadowed by war. His mouth, which should have been smiling, was set in a determined frown. Arthur took a step towards him.

‘Alfred, stop this nonsense. Call your men back, surrender, come back with me-’ He started to speak but Alfred cut him off.

‘Stop it, Arthur. I stopped listening to your grovelling when the war started.’ His voice was harsh. Nothing like the sweet boy he’d been fifty years ago.

‘Please, Alfred.’ Arthur was so pathetically desperate but he couldn’t help it. His emotions overwhelmed him and he took another step forward. They were barely a metre apart. Alfred’s frown deepened and he pointed his bayonet towards Arthur. 

‘I’m not going to stop until I’m an independent country. I’m not your little brother anymore, Arthur. Just let me be free.’ Alfred’s eyes softened, got a little brighter for a second. Hopeful that Arthur would accept, that he wouldn’t have to force him to his knees.

‘No. I’m your brother, Alfred, and I’m telling you to come home.’ Arthur said resolutely. He knew it was useless. He didn’t care. Alfred looked resigned.

‘I’m sorry, Arthur.’ He murmured. _Shck!_

At first he didn’t feel anything. Arthur looked down slowly. Alfred’s bayonet was lodged in his chest. _Shck_. Alfred pulled it out. Arthur looked at him sadly. He couldn’t die. But he’d lost. He fell to the ground, clutching his wound. Blood spilled from between his fingers. All around the battlefield, British soldiers felt the effects of the defeated nation. Their motivation, their patriotic spirit, vanished. Their heads hung as they dropped their weapons and surrendered.

‘It’s a new day for the United States of America!’ Alfred roared, thrusting his musket in the air. Arthur couldn’t think. All he felt was pain. Pain from his wound. Pain from losing Alfred. Blood stinging his tongue. It was over.

Then the pain ebbed away, the scene around him faded. Arthur was falling, falling into darkness. He closed his eyes and was enveloped by the void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so cliché ^0^
> 
> i tried to make the chapter longer, please tell me whether you like it or not!
> 
> Also, I'm thinking of changing my plot idea so chapters alternate between Arthur being awake and in his memory-nightmares. I think it would be interesting to see how the nightmares affect daily life - plus I want to write fruk ;D so please tell me what you think!


	3. Thunder

There was an aching pain behind Arthur’s eyes. His throat was dry and sore. Slowly, as he woke up more, violent, painful memories became vivid in his mind. Dripping blood, shining metal. Slowly he opened his puffy eyes. There was no empty glass in his hand from the night before. A blanket had been draped around him. He slowly sat up, groaning as his headache increased.

‘Ah, mon cher, you’re awake.’ Francis’ voice came from the lounge. Arthur blinked bleariness from his eyes and shuffled around to face Francis. He sat on Arthur’s couch, reading a book.

‘How the ruddy hell did you get into my apartment?’ Arthur grumbled. Francis glanced up from his novel and smiled.

‘You left the door open.’ He replied, then closed his book and stood up.

‘Sit down on the couch, I’ll make you some tea.’ He said with an affectionate smile. He walked into the kitchen. On the way past Arthur he leaned in to give his cheek a peck, but Arthur turned away.

‘I don’t need your help, frog.’ He muttered. Despite his grumblings, he walked slowly over to the couch and plopped down on it. Even on this plush sofa, in this familiar and comforting environment, Arthur still saw his nightmare clearly every time he closed his eyes. Alfred’s sky-blue eyes staring into his. The stench of death piercing his soul. Arthur looked down at his hands slowly. They were shaking and smeared with blood.

‘Arthur?’ He jerked awake again. He’d fallen asleep, just for a moment. Francis held out a steaming mug of tea to him, which Arthur accepted silently. Francis sat down on the other side of the couch.

‘Is everything alright?’ Francis’ voice was laced with worry. Arthur bristled indignantly. 

‘Of course it is, frog. I just had a bit too much to drink.’ He snapped. After a few moments of silence between them Francis turned on the television to drown out the unspoken words.

‘... But tensions threaten to rise between the United States and Russia. Helen Worthing is on the scene at the White House, with Alfred F Jones, representative of the United States of America.’ The image on the screen changed from a news reporter to Alfred, grinning at the camera. Arthur felt bile rise in his throat. 

‘Turn it off.’ He whispered. Francis looked at him questioningly.

‘Turn it off!’ Arthur repeated hoarsely, tears building in his eyes. He could feel the bayonet lodged in him, agonising. His heart thumped in his chest painfully. Francis obliged and the image faded to black.

‘Mon cher, please tell me what’s bothering you.’ Francis implored. Arthur stared at him with tired eyes. He couldn’t. Didn’t Francis understand that? It was so stupid - why did a mere dream make him feel like this? He couldn’t tell Francis.

‘It’s - it’s nothing. I’m fine. Screen was hurting my eyes.’ He replied. Francis raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Francis stayed until lunch, then drifted off unwillingly when Arthur insisted on complete quiet so he could ‘finish urgent paperwork’. They had barely exchanged words in their hours together, but before he left Francis kissed Arthur. His gentle lips caressed Arthur’s, whispering unspoken affection. The kiss did little to soothe Arthur’s nerves.

* * *

The paperwork didn’t get touched. Arthur watched and rewatched Downton Abbey. Slowly light slipped away, casting his apartment into shadow. The rain from last night started up again, accompanied this time by rolling thunder, as the sun set. Raindrops gleamed on the window, speckling the grey light that illuminated the room softly. Arthur stopped paying attention to the melodrama on the television screen and stared aimlessly into space. If he fell asleep, would he dream again? Would he be back in the trenches? The sun set. Arthur barely noticed. He yeared for Francis to be there, but simultaneously dreaded his questions and hollow assurances.

Night time came swiftly. Arthur didn’t move from the couch. His phone buzzed. He glanced at it.

 _Need me to come over?_ Francis’ number. Yes. Definitely. For the love of god, come.

 _Of course not, I’m fine._ He typed with trembling fingers. He didn’t understand why he’d refused Francis’ offer. Perhaps it was the shame he felt burning in his cheeks from being rattled so much by a simple nightmare. But now that darkness had fallen, the tangibility of last night’s dream was far too real. He didn’t want to go back to sleep. He turned Downton Abbey back on, tried to distract himself from the thunder outside. It sounded just like cannon fire.

At 3:45am, as Downton Abbey played in the background, Arthur’s eyes closed and he drifted to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh, this felt like such a filler chapter ;o; i hope that its ok! hopefully the storyline will progress some more next time Arthur's awake ;u;
> 
> (also, sorry for the short chapter! I will try to get the chapter word count over 1000 again next chapter!)


	4. Family

Arthur was alone. Afternoon sun warmed his back, dappled from the leaves above. In the distance, a river flowed quietly. Larks sang softly as the last afternoon of spring ended. Everything was tranquil. When everything was peaceful like this, Arthur’s thoughts always wandered to how he came to be. He always came to the same conclusion - he didn’t remember, and he didn’t really care. Arthur looked up at the tree nearest to him. High up on its gnarled trunk, a brown moth flitted its wings. Arthur stood up and tried to touch it. He was just too short to reach. He wondered if Mother would think it was beautiful. Mother thought all animals were beautiful, even Rabbits and Crickets. Instead of jumping up to hit the moth, he watched it for a while instead.

“Seen any fairies?” Arthur looked behind him to see his freckled, redhaired brother leaning against a tree. He was a head taller than Arthur - despite being his younger brother - and had his usual air of adventurous mischief. His clothes were dirty and he wore a tattered green cloak around his neck.

“No.” Arthur murmured. Alistair always asked him that, and Arthur always said no - even though the forest was full of them. Alistair could see them too, but pretended he couldn’t; Arthur had seen him dancing with forest spirits more than once. Alistair trotted to the tree and inspected the moth.

“You aren’t very fun to play with, y’know. You just want to laze around instead of explore. I wouldn’t even be bothering you if Finn would play with me, but he’s off somewhere with Cai. So I’ve been bored all day.” Alistair complained. Arthur didn’t reply, hiding himself behind his mop of blond hair.

“Look, I know I broke your necklace yesterday, but can’t we-” Alistair broke off suddenly, brows knitted together in a confused frown. Arthur looked at him curiously. Then he felt it.

It wasn’t physically painful, but it was agony like he’d never felt more. It was like there was something inside him that was disappearing, leaving an aching gap.

“What…?” Arthur looked at Alistair with fearful eyes. Then, by some instinct, he understood.

“Mother.” He whispered. He started running. He raced through the trees, heart pounding in his chest. There was something very, very wrong, and every fibre of his being was telling him to find his mother. The birds continued singing, the river continued rushing. But Arthur could sense that something had changed.

“Arthur! Slow down! Bleedin’ hell-” Alistair yelled, struggling to keep up. Arthur ignored him. He tripped over a tree root and got back up again, not even glancing down at his scraped knees. He splashed across the river, momentarily forgetting his fear of the sea serpents Cai described in their evenings around the fire. He ran out of the forest and into a field. The long golden grass moved like waves in the wind underneath the copper sky.

 

“Mother! Mother!” He cried, struggling through the grass that nearly came up to his chin. The aching became worse. Then she was there in front of him, lying in the grass. Her long blonde hair spilled out like spun gold, but her green eyes were dull and flat. Her white tunic was marred with dirt. Arthur kneeled down and stared at her, his voice lost as tears welled up. There was a flicker of recognition in her eyes.

“Arthur…” She cradled his face in her hands, smiling gently. Her freckled skin was pale, showing every mark and bruise.

“Mother, what’s wrong? Why do I feel so bad inside?” Arthur asked, tears rolling down his cheeks. She closed her eyes.

“Because deep inside, you know what is going to happen, my child.” She murmured. Arthur heard Alistair stumble through the field towards them.

“Ma! Ma, what’s goin’ on?” He kneeled down next to Arthur, breathing heavily after his long run. 

“It’s my time, Alistair. I have lived a long, happy life. Now I must return to that which gave me life. Nature has decided it’s time to reclaim me.” She said softly. 

“No, Ma, that’s silly, don’t be saying things like that!” Alistair cried, his voice rising in panic.

“I love you, mother. Please don’t go.” Arthur whispered. A teardrop fell from his nose onto her shoulder.

“Take care of your brothers…” Her voice was barely a whisper. Slowly she started to fade. It was tragically elegant, the way she dissolved into the earth, the air, the water beneath. There was a quiet sigh. Then there was nothing but a daisy in the ground where she had been.

“Ma! Ma!” Alistair was crying. He was standing, screaming. Arthur didn’t move. He couldn’t move. His limbs were paralysed with intolerable grief. He felt empty. Mother was gone. She was painfully, impossibly, eternally gone.

Arthur wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh! Poor little Arthur! He's acting rather more mellow than his adult self in this chapter - this is because a little headcanon of mine is that Britannia's death caused Arthur to become more introverted and mean as a coping mechanism, and he never really stopped. :,( 
> 
> By the way - Cai is Wales and Finn is Ireland! 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter!


End file.
